


Come Home

by MelWritesFanfic (atotallyoriginalusername)



Series: My Sweet Prince [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Authorities make stupid decisions, Backstory, Bad Decisions, British English, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Character Study, Gen, Gratuitous Overuse of Italics, Hospitals, I have a thing for semicolons, I'm weird and I'm sorry, Introspection, Introversion, Kinda sad?, Light Angst, Loneliness, Marked as Gen for now, Melancholy, Mood Swings, My Punctuation Fetish, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Prompto Argentum, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Poor Prompto Argentum, Puberty, Slow Paced, Social Issues, Todays favoured punctuation: parenthesis, Unreliable Narrator, Will probably get shippy real soon though, Xenophobia, because the fic has other ideas and its fighting me, brotherhood era, it is coming, just maybe not right now, living alone, might have lied about it getting shippy quickly, now with added words, pre-promptis, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15483378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atotallyoriginalusername/pseuds/MelWritesFanfic
Summary: My take on the backstory of Prompto Argentum told from various points in his life, pre-game. I hope to look at how he ended up living alone, how his refugee status affected his relationships with others, his social development and his self-esteem, his weight loss, and last, but certainly not least, his developing relationship with Prince Noctis.





	1. Aged 5

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and Welcome to my weirdness!
> 
> First off, thanks for clicking into this little fic here. I've been fascinated by Prompto's background for a while and have wanted to read/write about it for some time. The thought that Prompto could be fostered/adopted only to be abandoned and left on his own at such a young age doesn't sit well with me, so I thought I'd write my own version of events.
> 
> Please bear in mind that the chapters are written using a language/vocabulary level that would reflect Prompto's age at the particular point in the fic, it's going to start out fairly simple...
> 
> Also, this is no action-packed adventure tale, it's fairly slow and introspective. Cos that's my jam. 
> 
> Second off, I'm looking to see if there's any interest in this, so in the interest of science (and absolutely nothing to do with my need for validation at all *wink*) I'm just going to post the first (really short) chapter up on the AO3 and see how it goes. It's not going to be spectacularly long either, probably at most 5 chapters if people are interested in it.
> 
> Comments and Feedback make me feel warm and fuzzy inside and put a big smile on my otherwise frowny face. I'd very much like your opinions on this piece if you liked it. (Or even if you didn't - but please tell me what about it you didn't like so I can work to improve my writing, don't be mean - I am a fragile soul.)
> 
> Also, if you liked it, a wee kudos wouldn't hurt either ;)
> 
> Please enjoy x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was only a baby when the Lucians took him out of Niflheim. Prompto knows because the warden at the orphanage told him; said that he was less than a year old. Prompto can't remember anything about it."

_Every sky is blue_  
_But not for me and you_  
—  _Come Home_  by Placebo

He was only a baby when the Lucians took him out of Niflheim. Prompto knows because the warden at the orphanage told him; said that he was less than a year old. Prompto can't remember anything about it.

The orphanage, Archaean House — named after the Astral, Titan — is on a street on the west side of Insomnia, across from a sweet shop and a firehouse. It's in the middle of a row of other houses made of big red bricks, and it's got a bright yellow door and an iron fence. Prompto likes living in the house cause it's cosy and warm, and he's got his own room and his own toys. Not too many people live there; just the warden, Prompto and four other kids.

The warden, Quintus, has been at the house for as long as Prompto can remember. He's got a round belly, like a football, and when he stands up, his head almost reaches the top of the door frame. Prompto reckons he might be a giant. Quintus smiles a lot, it makes his eyes go crinkly at the sides, and he's always making silly faces that make Prompto laugh. His moustache looks a lot like the bottom of a sweeping brush.

Quintus says it's his job to look after Prompto and the other kids to make sure they become _respectable citizens_.  Prompto doesn't really know what that means, but he thinks that means that Quintus is supposed to make sure no one gets into any trouble. He cooks them three meals a day, buys Prompto his clothes and toys, and he makes sure that Prompto goes to school and does his homework, even when Prompto doesn't really want to. At bedtime, he reads Prompto stories about the Astrals and the Lucian Kings.

Sometimes, if the weather is nice, Quintus takes them on outings around the city. He says that it's good to go outside and get fresh air, and he says that there's a lot to learn by going outdoors. One time they'd gone to the City Farm to see the chocobos, and Prompto had got upset because the other kids were teasing him; they'd said his hair looked like the chocobo's butt! Quintus had told them off and got them to apologise, then took Prompto to the ice cream stall for an ice cream cone.

"When I get sad," he'd said, handing Prompto the treat, "ice cream always helps me forget about it."

Prompto ate the ice cream so fast that it made his head hurt. "Ow!" he'd said, rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. "Brain-freeze!"

Quintus poked his finger between Prompto's scrunched eyebrows. "See," he'd said, "you forgot about being sad."

Prompto had giggled then, and Quintus smiled and asked him if he'd like to feed the chocobos.

"Can I?" Prompto gasped.

"Sure, you can," Quintus said, stuffing a handful of gysahl greens into Prompto's hand and leading him to the chocobo pen. When they were fed, the farmer even let Prompto sit on one and they went for a ride; it felt like he was flying. Prompto loves chocobos.

* * *

Quintus might be Prompto's friend. At least, that's what Prompto thinks.

He spends a lot of time in Quintus's office, not because he's in trouble, it's just that he doesn't really get along with the other kids; he's kind of shy and scared to talk to them. They're always teasing him about his hair, and they ask him a lot of questions. He's got this _mark_ on his wrist — he thinks he was born with it: it's been there since forever — and when they ask about it, it makes him feel weird. He doesn't know how the mark got there and he doesn't know what it means, or how to talk about it.

Quintus says the mark is called a _barcode_ and he says the _Niffs_ put it on him. Prompto's seen the same kind of marks on the candy bars that Serva sells in her sweet shop. Sometimes, he wonders if maybe the Niffs were trying to sell him, too. He asks Quintus about it, but Quintus says he doesn't know, and Quintus knows everything.

The people in Lucis don't like the Niffs much. Prompto doesn't know what it's like in Niflheim but listening to other people talk about it makes him think it must be a bad place. He gets scared that someone will see his barcode and make him go back there. Quintus says that won't happen, but he buys Prompto a wristband to cover the barcode up, so people can't see it, and Prompto doesn't feel so weird anymore.

Most of what Prompto knows about Niflheim comes from what he's heard from Quintus. Like how their soldiers are called _Imperial Soldiers_ , and that they've got a whole section of their army that's made up completely of robots. They're called the _Magitek Infantry_.

Quintus says it's bad to have a robot army, but Prompto thinks that it sounds kind of cool. It's like some of the cartoons he watches on tv.

"Do the Magiteks look like this robot?" he asks, shaking his toy robot in front of Quintus's face.

Quintus laughs his crinkly laugh and shakes his head. "No, silly! they're a lot bigger," he says stretching his arms out wide, "and they've got guns, and swords, and laser vision!"

Prompto's eyes go wide. "Whoa!"

"Uh-huh," Quintus says, nodding, "but they're trying to fight with Lucis."

And that's... not cool.

Quintus says the Niffs aren't very nice. (Actually, he says they're _land-grabbing bastards_ , but Prompto's not supposed to say bad words.)

"But I'm a Niff," Prompto says, tears filling his eyes, "aren't I? You said they took me out of Niflheim."

"You're a Lucian, Prompto," Quintus says, looking at him with a frown. "Don't let anyone tell you any different."

* * *

"What's a _dopted_?" Prompto asks, one day, when they're doing chores — he's helping Quintus do the dishes.

Quintus stops and puts the plate he's washing back in the sink. "Where did you hear that word, Prompto?"

"Verno said he was getting a _dopted_ ," Prompto says, squinting up at Quintus.

"Did he now?"

Prompto nods and starts swinging his leg back and forth, staring at his sneakers as they scuff the kitchen floor. "Uh-huh. He told Julia he was getting one in school today." He looks up to Quintus then, hopeful, "is it a dog?"

Quintus laughs. "No, it's not a dog."

"Is it a cat?"

Quintus shakes his head. "Prompto, can you sit down at the table, please?"

Prompto makes his way to the table and sits. Maybe 'dopted' is a bad word: Verno's always saying bad words. He says he's allowed to cause he's seven, and older than Prompto. Quintus comes to sit next to him and Prompto looks up at him, hoping he's not in trouble.

"You know that the kids who live here don't have a mommy or a daddy, right?" Quintus asks after a while.

"Uh-huh," says Prompto, nodding his head.

"Well, _adopted_ means that you get a new mommy and daddy," he says, "and you get to go and live with them."

 _Oh_. Verno's getting a new mommy and daddy.

Prompto wonders if he’s going to get a new mommy and daddy. He's not sure he wants to live anywhere else; he likes it _here_ , and he likes Quintus. "Does everyone get a dopted?" he asks.

Quintus looks at Prompto in a way that makes Prompto think he's trying to do sums in his head. "Not always," he says.

"Will I get a dopted?" Prompto asks.

"Maybe," Quintus says, getting up off the chair and going back to the sink, "but I might have to keep you here if we don't get these chores done."

Prompto hopes that there's always going to be chores to do.


	2. Aged 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prompto doesn't get adopted when he's five, and he doesn't get adopted when he's six."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, feedback and kudos make me feel warm and fuzzy inside and put a big smile on my otherwise frowny face.
> 
> I'm sorry about the length of time I've taken to update this, my mood has been terrible.

_Since I was born, I've started to decay_  
_Now nothing ever ever goes my way_  
— _Teenage Angst_ by Placebo

Prompto doesn't get adopted when he's five, and he doesn't get adopted when he's six.

When he's seven, and he's watched so many other boys and girls come and go from the house, he starts to wonder if maybe there's something about him that's _wrong._

It's not that he's not happy where he is; he thinks of Quintus like he was his real dad, and he'd really like to stay with him. It's just that it hurts, sometimes, that nobody picks him.

One Saturday, Quintus is waiting for Prompto in the kitchen with his coat. He takes him on the bus to visit a man and a woman named Mr and Mrs Iratus. They live in a townhouse on the east side of the city, near the wall. It's got three floors and a garden with rose bushes at the front.

Mr Iratus looks up at Quintus with a scowl on his face when he answers the door. The scowl deepens when he looks down at Prompto through his thick black glasses that sit at the end of his long, thin nose. He lets them into the kitchen, which smells like burnt toast, and turns to put a pot of tea on the stove.

Mrs Iratus, who's sitting at the kitchen table, stares at Prompto with narrowed eyes. She's got a wart at the side of her top lip, and there's one strand of wiry, black hair sticking out of her chin. Her lips are drawn together like she's eaten a grapefruit without any sugar, and she wants to spit it back out.

They both make Prompto feel nervous. They do have a dog, though.

Prompto thinks if Quintus' moustache grew four stubby legs, a head and a tail, it would look a lot like this dog. It won't stop barking, and it jumps all over Prompto and tickles him with its long, sandy coloured fur when it licks at his face. Mr Iratus says the dog is called Lyla, and she's a _Leiden Hound_. Prompto loves her straight away.

Quintus hands Mr and Mrs Iratus a brown envelope each and tells them that Prompto's papers are inside.

"What part of Lucis are you from, then?" the man asks Prompto, after reading through the papers. His voice is gruff and rumbly, like a storm, and the way he's looking at Prompto makes Prompto think of the time when he'd accidentally set fire to an oven glove in the kitchen back home, and Quintus had sworn at him and told him off (although he said sorry after).

Prompto doesn't know how to answer that, so he ducks his head and buries his hands into Lyla's soft fur.  Mr Iratus turns to Quintus. "Is the boy mute?"

"No," says Quintus, laughing a little and ruffling Prompto's hair, "he's just a little shy." Quintus squats down so that he's eye level with Prompto. "Tell Mr Iratus where you live, Prompto."

Prompto looks up at Mr Iratus, his hands still running over the dog's back. "'somnia," he murmurs.

The man snorts. "Not many Insomnians with hair like that," he says, looking at Quintus and tilting his head towards Prompto.

Quintus nods his head. "It is uncommon," he agrees, "but not unheard of."

They talk a lot _about_ Prompto without actually talking _to_ Prompto. Prompto hears a lot of words he doesn't understand. He hears Mr Iratus say things like _rotund_ , and _awkward_ , and _affected_ , and he hears Quintus tell the man that Prompto is _polite_ _and considerate_ , that he loves animals and nature, and he likes taking pictures.

When Mr Iratus mentions _immigrants_ , Mrs Iratus, who hasn't spoken (or smiled) the entire time Prompto's been there, looks straight in Prompto's eyes.

"You're a little _Niff_ boy, aren't you?" she says, almost spitting on Prompto with the way she pronounces the word. Prompto feels his stomach flop. "What's a little Niff boy doin' in Lucis?"

Prompto fidgets with his wristband and hides behind Quintus.

"Madam," says Quintus, as Prompto clings on to the back of his jacket, "the boy is as Lucian as you or I. You've seen his papers."

"I've seen _your copy_ of his papers," the woman says. "Not like those can't be fudged." She turns to her husband and points at Prompto. "I'm not 'avin' no Niff boy under my roof. Not now, Aldo. Not ever."

"I think we're finished here," Quintus says to the couple as he gathers up his things and takes Prompto by the hand to lead him outside.

By the time they get back to the orphanage, Prompto feels sick, and he can't stop sob that leaves his mouth. "How did she know I was a Niff?"

"Don't fret over it, Prompto." Quintus says, putting his hands on Prompto's shoulders, "it's not worth worrying about."

"But how could she tell?" Prompto asks, pulling at his wristband. "I was wearing this."

"Some people are going to be like that, " Quintus says, "you just have to ignore them."

"But what if—what if everyone's like that?" Prompto asks, his voice stuttering through his tears. In that moment, Prompto can't hold back his fears. "What if no one ever wants me?"

"Listen to me, Prompto," Quintus says, pulling Prompto closer to his chest. "Someday, you're going to find a family that will love you exactly as you are."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Prompto doesn't get adopted when he's seven.

* * *

Three days before his eighth birthday, Prompto gets locked in a store cupboard under the stairs. It's dark and cold; Prompto thinks there might be spiders. He doesn't have a lot of room to move and there's something heavy pushing on his chest.

He thumps on the door so hard it stings his hand and screams until the pressure on his chest hurts so much that he can't breathe. Then his mind goes blank.

"… don't think he's…" Everything sounds like it does when Prompto's in the shower and gets water in his ears.

"… long has he…" He doesn't know who the voices belong to, he thinks one of them is Quintus.

"… let's just…" He just wants to go to sleep.

Prompto feels like he's weightless. There's a feathery softness surrounding his body and he can feel the wind on his cheeks; it makes him think of chocobos and flying.

He wants to stay like this forever, but as soon as it started, it's over.

"You gave us a fright, boy," is the first thing that Prompto hears when he cracks his eyes open.

Quintus is by his side, sitting on a high-backed chair that Prompto's never seen before. There's a curtain around the other side of the bed and Prompto realises this is not his room. Prompto can't see past Quintus from where he's lying.

His throat hurts.

He tries to sit up, but a firm hand shoves him back down and a small, plastic remote is thrust into his hand. "Press this button if you want to sit up."

Prompto presses the button and the bed he's lying on rises at his back. He's in hospital. His throat really hurts.

"Do you need a drink?" Quintus asks like he can see into Prompto's mind. Prompto nods and Quintus goes to fetch him some water, holding the plastic cup to Prompto's lips when he comes back.

"Why am I in hospital?" Prompto asks.

"You were unconscious," Quintus replies, sitting back down. "Do you know what that means?"

Prompto shakes his head.

"Well, we found you in the cupboard," Quintus says, "and we couldn't wake you up." He shifts in his seat. "We thought you weren't breathing."

"I didn't mean to get stuck in there," Prompto says, his voice trembling, "The door closed over. I couldn't get it open again."

"The nurses said you'll need to stay here tonight, just because you passed out," Quintus says as he sweeps Prompto's hair from his forehead, "I won't be able to stay, but they'll look after you, ok?"

Prompto nods.

When Quintus leaves, the nurses let Prompto watch TV for a while. He watches the Justice Monsters V cartoon and then the news comes on. They talk about the war and The Empire, and about The Crown Prince, Noctis — he's sick, too (Prompto thinks he looks sad) — travelling to Tenebrae to see the Oracle.

That night, when Prompto goes to sleep, he dreams about the Crown Prince alone in Tenebrae.

* * *

On his birthday, Quintus takes him out to the Crow's Nest for a special treat.

"You can have whatever you want," he says, pointing at the menu.

Prompto orders a Kenny's Special cheeseburger (the waitress had told him, with a wink, that the sauce was a secret recipe), curly fries and a strawberry milkshake, and Quintus gets salmon and fries.

They're halfway through dinner when Quintus pulls out a box that's wrapped in Lord Vexxos wrapping paper. "It's not much, " he says, holding the box out for Prompto to take, "and I'm not really supposed to do this, but happy birthday, Prompto."

Prompto can't believe it: he's never had a present before. He takes the box and rips the paper open, almost dropping it when he sees what it is.

"Wow!" he says, eyes gleaming as he pulls the rest of the paper from the box. It's a camera, one of those digital ones that don't need any film. "Thanks!"

He hops out of his side of the booth and runs around the table to hug Quintus. "I'm gonna take pictures of every dog in the city!"

Quintus laughs, returning his hug. "Just dogs, huh?"

"And cats, and the trees, and the houses, and _everything_!"

Quintus ruffles Prompto's hair as Prompto fiddles with the camera and poses when Prompto tries to take a shot of him.

"Thanks, Quintus!" Prompto repeats.

"Why don't you finish your dinner," he says with a wide smile, "and then we can go to the park and make a start on those dogs, hm?"

"Yeah!" Prompto says.

Prompto doesn't think he's ever felt this happy.


	3. Aged 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The war gets worse. Prompto doesn't need to watch the news to know: he _feels_ it in the stares of passing strangers when he's walking down the street; he _hears_ it in their not-so-quiet whispers to each other; _sees_ it when they cross the road as he approaches; always careful around the little Niff boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where my idea for the whole fic started. I hope you all like it! Also, I haven't edited this at all. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. This one may be a little upsetting (I'm not sure?), I hope you don't hate me too much.
> 
> As always, any comments, feedback and kudos make me feel warm and fuzzy inside and put a big smile on my otherwise frowny face. I've been so happy with the feedback I've received for this so far.
> 
> Thank you!

_I'm forever black-eyed_  
_A product of a broken home_  
— _Black Eyed_ by Placebo

The war gets worse. Prompto doesn't need to watch the news to know: he _feels_ it in the stares of passing strangers when he's walking down the street; he _hears_ it in their not-so-quiet whispers to each other; _sees_ it when they cross the road as he approaches; always careful around the little Niff boy.

Prompto knows the war is worse with the way the orphanage is filling up, too. There are five other boys in his room now, two to a bed, and Prompto sees new faces every other week.

Quintus is struggling; Prompto's caught him napping at his desk more times than he can count, and social workers are visiting the house every day. He doesn't have as much time to sit with Prompto to look at the photos he's taken that day, or to help him with his homework like he used to. Prompto doesn't mind. He wishes he could help him, somehow, but he doesn't know what to do. He does the chores when he can, in between homework and school, and still, Quintus looks as tired as ever.

He's one of the older kids, now. One of the ones he's heard the social workers call _unadoptable_. He wonders, sometimes, if that's because he's a Niff, but then Juno and Marie are both from Galahd, and they haven't been adopted. Neither has Adrian, an Insomnian, or Julia who's Duscaen, so maybe he's doing something else wrong.

He tries not to think like that. Quintus has told him off for it a few times.

"If people only choose to see the things that they don't like about someone," he'd said with that voice he uses when he's telling Prompto something important, "they're going to miss out on a lot."

Prompto still isn't sure what that means.

Pulling his jacket tighter to his chest, he quickens his pace; he's been out all day with his camera and it's colder than it's been for a while. He can feel the goosebumps prickling his skin. He wants to get home in time for dinner and show Quintus the photos he's taken.

"I'm home," he calls as he enters the house, wiping his feet at the door and looking in the kitchen. Quintus isn't there, which isn't unusual, at least not these days, so he turns and heads to his room, past the closed door of Quintus' office.

Prompto stops.

Quintus never closes his office door. Not even when the social workers are in.

"… yes, I understand that" he hears Quintus say from behind the paint-chipped wood, "but you can't move _him_."

"Quintus." A woman's voice. "I know you're _fond_ of the kid, but Child Services have said—"

"I know what Child Services are saying!" Quintus' voice is low and booming. Almost a growl. There's a loud clattering thud that makes Prompto flinch. He thinks Quintus might have punched his desk. He's never sounded like that before, not even when Juno filled the toilet with sand that one time. "And I'm telling you, you _can't_ move him!"

There's a sigh (from the woman, he thinks). "Look, Quintus, Prompto's above the age limit." Prompto baulks: _they're moving him_. "He's not _the only one_. There's not enough space, and the orphanages in the city are all filling up faster than we can clear them. They _all_ need to move."

The conversation behind the door fades to background noise. Prompto feels his mouth go slack and his forehead tighten as his nose scrunches in a frown. He knows he needs to move away from here before they come out. His feet refuse the request.

He wrings his hands. Somehow, he manages to wrench himself away from the door and into his room. He doesn't understand. He falls onto his bed and stares at the cracks making paths across the ceiling. _Why_ does he need to move? The woman said there was no space. _No space for him_. But _where_ is he going to go? Are the others going with him? Is _Quintus_ going with him? It didn't sound like he was. It sounded a lot like...

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Prompto, can I come in for a minute?" Quintus asks.

"Yeah." Prompto answers simply.

Quintus enters the room. Prompto keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, scared that if he looks at Quintus, he might cry: he's sick of crying. He doesn't think he was supposed to hear that conversation. The bed across from Prompto's creaks. Quintus must have sat down.

"So," Quintus says, "it's been busy around here these last few weeks, hm?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to spend much time with you."

"It's okay."

"No, Prompto, it's not," Quintus says, and his voice is shaky like he's about to cry himself. Prompto looks at him then. He looks exhausted. His eyes are red and sunk into his face, and his hair looks the way those cartoon villains look when they've been hit with a thundaga spell.

Prompto doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. He knows what's coming.

"I've had a bit of… _news_ , today," Quintus says, "and I need to talk to you about it. Is that ok?"

Prompto's voice is a sigh. "Yeah."

Quintus talks. It feels like he talks for hours. He tells Prompto that Child Services have decided that the older children, the ones aged eleven and over, are taking up space in the orphanages that they say could be put to _better use_. He tells him that they're moving all the older kids out to somewhere they deem _more appropriate_.

Prompto thinks that's bullshit. (If they're going to move him out, then he can swear if he wants.)

Quintus snorts. "It is bullshit," he agrees. "I told them I'd adopt you, but they said I can't. Can you believe that?"

It's Prompto's turn to snort because that's the thing: Prompto _can_ believe it. Especially with everything _else_ he's heard. He doesn't say that, though, just shakes his head.

"So, they're uh…" Quintus trails off and swallows. "They're moving you. You and the others," he says.

"Where?" Prompto asks, his eyes returning to the ceiling.

"To some apartment complex," Quintus says, "I don't know exactly where, but you'll have your own apartment, and there'll be a warden, like me, looking after the block."

"But I don't—" Prompto says, giving up his struggle to hold back, tears stinging his cheeks. "I don't want to leave."

"I don't want you to leave, either."

"When?" Prompto asks, quietly.

"Two weeks."

* * *

The two weeks go past quicker than Prompto would like.

He finds himself standing, suitcase in hand, outside a four-storey apartment block that's close to the city centre.

"Well, at least it looks clean," says Quintus; he's carrying a box full of Prompto's stuff: comic books and trinkets, mainly. "Want to go inside?"

"No," Prompto replies because he doesn't. He wants to go back to Archaean House; his _home_. Still, he manages to open the main door and step into the foyer.

His new warden, Otius, is a tall, skinny man with a bald patch at the side of his head ( _"Old war wound,"_ he'd said, tapping a finger on it); his jeans have grease marks on them. When Otius talks, he sounds like he'd rather be somewhere else.

He shows Prompto and Quintus around, the ground floor houses Otius' workstation, his apartment, and a communal kitchen. There are three apartments on each other floor; Prompto's is on the third floor. It's small: a bedroom with a futon and a closet; a lounge which has a chair, a dining table and a sofa; a kitchenette that runs off the lounge, and a bathroom with a shower inside the bath.

"Dinner's at four-thirty, sharp, downstairs. " Otius says, handing Prompto a set of keys. "If you're late, you'll have to feed yourself."

He walks off, leaving Prompto alone with Quintus.

"Well," says Quintus, putting Prompto's things down on the table and pulling Prompto in for a hug. "I guess this is it."

Prompto squeezes tight; he doesn't want to let go. The way that Quintus squeezes back makes Prompto think he feels the same.

"You'd better come around to visit, boy," Quintus says, swiping at a tear in his eye. "You can come by any time you want, and I'll come and see you when I can."

Prompto nods his head. "I will. I promise."

They stand in silence, the only sounds in the apartment being the low hum of the fridge from the kitchenette and the ticking of the clock on the wall. It's the most awkward Prompto's ever felt around Quintus.

"You know, the social worker is covering for me at the house," Quintus says, breaking the silence as they hover in the entryway. "Do you want me to stay with you for a bit? Just 'til you get settled in?"

"Please."

Quintus is still there when Prompto falls asleep.

* * *

Prompto has the same dream every night:

He's lying down on something cold and hard, and everywhere is dark. There's a light coming from the other side of the room; the outline of a door, he thinks, but the door is closed, and the light doesn't reach inside.

Everything feels _off_ ; like he's looking at a jigsaw but one of the pieces is in the wrong place.

He tries to sit up and finds that he can't move. And that's when he hears the voices.

They sound like they're far away, at first. There are four of them, all saying the same thing, but at different pitches and at fractionally different times. He can't make out what they're saying, but he doesn't like it. They're laughing at him, he can make _that_ out.

Just when he's getting used to it, the voices stop and something slimy runs across his arm, making his skin prickle.

For once, Prompto's glad it's dark.

He feels the slime start crawling up his skin, towards his neck. Prompto tries to scream and feels the slick get in his mouth; sliding down his throat and making him gag. It forces him to breathe through his nose.

The voices return, weaving in and out around his head: Laughing, wailing, moaning.

He still can't move; the more he tries, the more the slime in his throat chokes him, and the more the voices laugh and scream.

He feels hot breath on his cheeks and the voices scream right in his ear.

Prompto wakes up.

* * *

Every Monday morning, when Prompto's leaving to walk to school, Otius hands him a brown envelope with his money for the week. It's the only time he ever sees the warden at the apartments.

The money helps with clothes for school and food. He's never home in time for dinner, so he usually ends up buying a cheeseburger and fries from the Crow's Nest. Prompto supposes he should be buying more groceries, but he doesn't really know how to cook that well; he can make toast in the toaster, and he knows how to use the kettle to make cup noodles.

For the first couple of months, on his way home, he kept walking back to Archaean House by mistake, instead of his apartment. Quintus had laughed at him the first time he'd turned up at the door when he'd apologised and said it was an accident.

"I told you, Prompto," Quintus had said, putting a plate of stew down in front of him at the table, "you can come here any time. I meant that."

 _Muscle memory_ Quintus had called it, then said that meant that Prompto's legs were used to walking to the orphanage.

Prompto's at the orphanage today, now that school's over, showing Quintus the photos that he's taken over the last few days.

"I got this great shot of a daggerquill in the National Park," he says to Quintus over tea, holding out his camera.

"You sure did," Quintus says, taking the camera and mulling over the picture. He flicks to the next one and turns it back towards Prompto, pointing at it, "and a coeurl, I see."

"Yeah!" Prompto says, nodding and smiling, "they're awesome!"

"How are you doing at home? Everything ok?"

"Everything's fine," he says. He doesn't really want to talk about the apartment; that's not his home. He's home right now. He doesn't mention the nightmares.

"And school?"

"School's alright," Prompto says, "the Crown Prince is at my school."

"Is he now?" Quintus asks, looking up at Prompto. "Have you spoken to him?"

Prompto shakes his head and takes a sip of tea. "Nah, he's not in any of my classes."

"So?"

"There's always this crowd of girls around him. I don't think he enjoys the attention."

Quintus chuckles and drains his tea. "Maybe he's just shy, like you," he says, sitting the mug back down on the table.

"I don't think that's it."

"You should talk to him," Quintus says. "It sounds like he could use a good friend; if only to rescue him from all those girls."

"Yeah, maybe," says Prompto, and goes back to flicking through his camera.

* * *

It's just a habit, when Prompto comes home, to say "I'm home."

He shouldn't feel so upset when he doesn't get an answer. He knows he doesn't have anyone to come home to. Not anymore.

Maybe, he thinks, he _should_ try to make a friend.


	4. Aged 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There’s an arcade on the corner of Citadel Square and Main Street that Prompto likes to go to in his free time. It's an old-style building with chipped stucco and dingy grey brickwork that sticks out like a sore, concrete thumb amongst all the modern, polished glass towers and sleek metal skyscrapers that surround it. Sometimes, Prompto looks at it like it’s a reflection of his own presence in the city: odd and out of place. A tolerable intrusion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, feedback and kudos make me feel warm and fuzzy inside and put a big smile on my otherwise frowny face.
> 
> I've re-worked this chapter and it's a lot longer, and although more words do not necessarily mean better quality, I do hope this is an improvement on the last version, which I was not at all happy with.
> 
> Thanks for reading  
> Mel x

_I've never been an extrovert_  
_But I'm still breathing_  
— _36 Degrees_ by Placebo

There’s an arcade on the corner of Citadel Square and Main Street that Prompto likes to go to in his free time. It's an old-style building with chipped stucco and dingy grey brickwork that sticks out like a sore, concrete thumb amongst all the modern, polished glass towers and sleek metal skyscrapers that surround it. Sometimes, Prompto looks at it like it’s a reflection of his own presence in the city: odd and out of place. A tolerable intrusion.

Inside, it's the stuff of Prompto's dreams, with wall to wall entertainment in the form of classic shooters and VR games. It gets all the best games _weeks_ before any of the other arcades in the city, too, and that's why Prompto's here now.

The poster for _Immortal Gunman VR: Battle Droids_ has been teasing Prompto for days with its promises of a "totally immersive shooting experience" and "graphics to rival home consoles." Prompto's been saving his allowance for this and now it's here. He can't wait to play it. He's already beaten the first three Immortal Gunman games and has high scores in all of them and he wants to do the same with this one.

Slipping inside the building, he exchanges his hard-saved coin for arcade tokens and ambles over to the display, flashing brightly in the dim of the arcade in eye-watering neon green. He's surprised to find it empty until he remembers it’s a school night.

It's the one benefit of not having any parents, Prompto supposes; he can pretty much do what he wants and going home to an empty apartment sucks. Besides, there's nothing he needs to go home for other than to sleep: Kenny Crow's got an outlet in here at the back, so he can grab something to eat and do his homework without having to leave until close.

He sinks a token into the machine's coin slot and picks up the headset and gun controller, watching with awe as the game comes to life and sucks him into a surprisingly realistic depiction of the Lucian continent. Prompto's never been outside the wall, but he's seen photos; this is just like being there.

It starts out simple enough, with a crashed airship in enemy territory. Prompto's got to obtain the necessary parts to repair it, sniping enemies as he goes, before moving onto to more difficult missions like scoping out and infiltrating bases. At some point, he gets to a boss fight, a robotic looking human with a vacant expression and glowing red eyes. It looks disturbingly like the Empire's Magitek Troopers and Prompto's stomach lurches with every shot he takes at it.

When the game has him trapped in an enemy facility, though, Prompto really starts to feel uneasy. He knows it's just a game, but it feels so real to Prompto and he doesn't understand it. It makes his skin crawl — there's an odd burning sensation on his wrist — and his chest heave until he's ripping the headset from his head and tearing out of the building. By the time he gets home, he's struggling to breathe and has to put his head between his legs to try to calm down.

He doesn't play the game again.

* * *

Prompto walks the same way home from school every day. There's this bridge that has a great overlook of the city and Prompto always stops to take photos there. It's kind of out the way and a longer walk than necessary but Prompto likes to use the time to process all his thoughts. There's a guy that goes jogging in the opposite direction. He always waves and says hello to Prompto but Prompto's too scared to say anything back, so he just keeps his head to the ground and keeps walking.

Usually, he doesn't come across anything else all the way home. Today, though, he finds a dog.

It's just in Prompto's instinct to take his camera out and snap a photo. Prompto loves animals, and dogs especially, at the best of times. This one, with its fluffy white fur and cute little face, is the most adorable puppy he's ever seen.

As Prompto gets closer, though, he drops the camera. He can see that she's hurt; a red smear of blood on her leg.

"It's okay, I got you," he says as he picks the poor thing up and examines the injury fishing a raggedy hanky from his schoolbag. He thinks he might be able to fix it.

"There," he says, tying the hanky around her leg and patting her on the head, "all better."

He sets her down on the road and waits, watching as she limps around on the sidewalk. He knows he really shouldn't take her in, but he can't exactly leave her either. She's probably starving.

He brings her into the apartment and searches his cupboards for a plate and something for her to eat.

"So, you got a name?" he asks. The dog yips and wags her tail.

"I guess I don't speak dog very well," Prompto says, laughing and laying a plate of milk down in front of her. He scratches his head as the dog laps at the milk. "You're owner must be worried sick."

In the space of two days, and despite not speaking dog, he speaks more words to the dog than he has to his classmates in an entire semester. He agonises for far too long on what name to call her, then settles for Tiny. It's not very imaginative, he knows, but it's accurate. He takes so many pictures of her that he ends up having to get a new memory card for his camera, and he posts flyers all over the city, hoping he can trace her owner.

For once, Prompto looks forward to coming home. He hasn't felt this happy in months, even his nightmares have stopped. It's just so nice to have something to cuddle that's warm and isn't his pillow.

"I'm sorry I haven't been over," he tells Quintus on the phone one night, his voice laced with a little guilt. "But I found a dog."

"Is that right?" Quintus asks.

"Yeah," Prompto says, nodding. "She was hurt on the sidewalk, I had to help her."

Quintus' chuckle crackles over the phone line. "Of course you did. I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Prompto."

"I gotta go feed her now, but I just wanted to say hi," Prompto says, "I'll come to see you as soon as she's better."

"I know you will," Quintus says. "Goodbye, Prompto. You take good care of that dog."

"I will," Prompto replies, smiling. "Bye, Quintus!"

Prompto reaches out to hang up the receiver when he hears Quintus still on the line. "Hey, Prompto?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a good kid."

Just when he's getting used to having the company, Tiny disappears, as if she'd never existed in the first place. If it wasn’t for the pictures he had on his camera, Prompto might have believed he'd dreamt the whole thing up. For the first time, the loneliness that Prompto is so used to threatens to crush him. He knows that Tiny wasn't really his, and he really hopes that she's managed to find her way home, but he _misses_ her.

A couple of days later, there's a letter in Prompto's mailbox.

He has to read the envelope twice to make sure it really is for him; the only mail he ever gets is a card from Quintus on his birthday.

It's on some fancy writing paper and it smells like pressed flowers and springtime. It's from a girl named Lunafreya.

_Dear Prompto_ , it says in neat, curly handwriting that Prompto takes a while to figure out, _I hope this letter reaches you in good health_ …

As Prompto reads, he learns that Tiny was this girl's dog and she was so glad that Prompto had found her and helped her to get better. He learns that Tiny's real name is _Pryna_. Prompto's glad she managed to find her way home, even if he does miss her.

When he finds out that the dog had been sent to see Prince Noctis, and that Lunafreya thinks that Prompto is friends with him, he almost rips the paper.

Prompto's never really been able to talk to anyone, let alone a prince. What makes this girl think he's so worthy?

Still, there's something about the way she writes about the Prince that makes him think she needs him to be friends with Noctis.

Maybe he should give it a shot.

* * *

As much as Prompto likes to pretend it isn't, being at the same school as the Crown Prince _is_ kind of a big deal; and as much as that girl in the letter had asked him to be a good friend to the prince, Prompto just can't find the nerve to go talk to him.

He thinks about it, though; thinks about it all the time. Until his stomach is churning and he feels like he's going to throw up.

Some nights, Prompto can't sleep for thinking about it.

"You're making it too complicated, Prompto," Quintus tells him during a rare visit to the apartment.

He doesn't get a lot of time off, what with the orphanage being as busy as it is, but he always makes time for Prompto and Prompto's thankful for that.

Prompto's lying across the floor with his math homework scattered around him. He looks up at Quintus with a frown. "It _is_ complicated."

"You don't need to think so hard about it," Quintus says from his perch on the couch, a mug of tea resting on his leg.

Chewing on the end of his pencil, Prompto turns his gaze back to the sprawl of papers in front of him. "I've _told_ you, he's always got this crowd surrounding him."

"And?"

"And…" Prompto continues, "I dunno, he just looks so bored with everything," he says. "I don't think he's interested in talking to anyone."

Prompto gets that: whenever he thinks of how Noctis is at school, he remembers how the prince never seems to get a minute. There's always a crowd of giggling, lovestruck girls around him trying to get his attention. The prince spends half his time running away from them, then spends the other half skulking around the janitor's yard, trying to hide.

Noctis always looks so lonely, though, and that's another feeling Prompto can relate to; although Prompto's not exactly lonely by choice. He supposes it must be different for a prince.

"How do you know he's not interested?" Quintus asks, pulling Prompto from his thoughts. "What do the other kids talk about?"

Prompto scratches his head. "Royal stuff, mostly," he says.

"So," Quintus says, raising an eyebrow, "don't talk to him about royal stuff." He takes a sip of his tea. "Talk about something else. Show him your camera."

Prompto groans and shakes his head; the prince doesn't want to see his crappy photos of dogs. The prince doesn't want to see Prompto's crappy anything. He lifts himself off the floor and plops down on the couch next to Quintus, his homework momentarily forgotten — he hates math anyway.

"I don't even know how to _start_ talking to him," he says, "never mind _what_ to talk to him about."

"Well," Quintus says with a smirk, "you could _start_ by saying 'hi'."

Just walk up and say "hi." Like it's the easiest and most natural thing to do in all of Eos.

The reality, for Prompto anyway, is that Noctis is a _prince_ ; heir to the Kingdom of Lucis, and Prompto… well, Prompto is Prompto; awkward and quiet. He's nobody.

(And he's a Niff.)

There's nothing that's easy or natural about Prompto.

He wants to be able to talk to people, he really does, he's just not interesting enough and he never knows what to say. He's so ordinary and forgettable it's pathetic, and he's not good at anything except for taking pictures. When his classmates go to the park, they climb the trees; When Prompto goes, he takes photos of them. He doesn't do anything cool, like play an instrument, and when he tries to play sports, he just ends up falling over and spending most of his time trying to get his breath back. He likes nerdy stuff like comic books and video games.

There's nothing he can offer anyone.

That thought makes him frown and fumble with his wristband. "What if I'm not good enough?"

Quintus eyes him over the rim of his mug before reaching out to ruffle his hair. "You worry too much, boy."

* * *

When he thinks about it, Prompto had been right to be worried: his first attempt at befriending Noctis was a disaster. After psyching himself up for weeks, he'd eventually found the guts from somewhere to approach the prince; only instead of walking up and saying "hi," he'd fallen flat on his face. If that hadn't been mortifying enough, when his highness had tried to help him back to his feet, he'd almost fallen over himself.

_You're heavy_.

The words repeat in Prompto's head like he's in an echo chamber. Even now, long after the initial embarrassment has faded. _You're heavy_ ; they play in time with every footstep he takes on his way home from school. _You're heavy_ ; with every bite he takes of his evening meal. In the shower, as the water sprays over his head; _you're heavy_.

Even as he tries to sleep, he hears those words. He says them out loud to the darkness and feels the weight of them on his tongue.

_You're heavy_. _You're heavy_. _You're heavy_.

Instinctively he wants to withdraw; stop pretending to himself that he could ever be good enough to be a friend to Prince Noctis. But, as he lies awake that night, he realises that he's never even tried; not really.

And that girl, Lunafreya, she's counting on him to try.

It's one thing for Prompto to give up on himself, but there's someone else out there now. Someone who's asked him to be there for Prince Noctis. Prompto can't let them down.

When his alarm goes off early the next morning, there's a sense of determination buzzing through him like he's never felt before. Grabbing his camera, he steps up to his mirror and snaps a shot of himself to stick to his closet: motivation.

As he heads out on to the streets to make his way to school, he reminds himself that he can be good enough. He will be good enough. He can lose this weight.

Cause when he thinks about it, he doesn't really have anything else to lose.


	5. Aged 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Out of sheer habit, Prompto sometimes finds himself standing at the front door of the downtown Crow's Nest.
> 
> "Ifrit's balls! Is that Prompto?"
> 
> Admittedly, he hasn't been inside in a while. For months, in fact. He's been, well, on a diet. He shouldn't be here, and he needs to leave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and feedback make me feel warm and fuzzy inside and put a big smile on my otherwise frowny face.
> 
> I'm sorry it's been a while. I rewrote this chapter quite a lot.
> 
> Please enjoy :)  
> Mel x

_It's in your reach_  
_Concentrate_  
— _Passive Aggressive_ by Placebo

Out of sheer habit, Prompto sometimes finds himself standing at the front door of the downtown Crow's Nest.

"Ifrit's balls! Is that Prompto?"

Admittedly, he hasn't been inside in a while. For months, in fact. He's been, well, on a diet. He shouldn't be here, and he needs to leave.

"Prompto? Is that you?"

Too late.

Prompto scratches his head and nods to the girl at the register. "Um, hey Cynthia. Long time, no see."

She's his favourite cashier. She chews gum when she's serving customers, and pulls faces behind their backs if they don't leave a tip. She always wears black even though it's the royal colour, and she styles her hair in tight ringlets when she's supposed to have it in a bun (" _because this is the Crow's Nest, not the damn Caelum Via Hotel_ " _)_.

Cynthia doesn't give a shit about anything. She used to sneak Prompto an extra cheeseburger in his order every time he went there, (" _Stickin' it to the man, Prompto,_ " she'd say), but that's not the reason Prompto likes her.

Well, it is, but there's more to it.

Prompto likes her because she's a refugee, like him. And not a Lucian one.

Right now, though, she's gawking at him like he just fell out of a dropship and it's making him a little anxious. He runs his hands over himself to check everything's ok. He seems to be all present and correct.

"Prompto, what the hell?" she says, and—have her eyes gone a little glassy?

"Somethin' wrong?"

Cynthia slaps a jewellery laden hand on the counter, and Prompto realises there's a growing number of people staring at them. Of course, today's Friday. The Crow's Nest is always busy on the weekend. He leans his elbows on the counter and tries to fold in on himself.  

"I haven't seen you in a year, Prompto. _A year!_ "

"That long, huh?"

"Yes, that long," she says, then adds, with solemnity, "I thought you'd died."

Prompto has to resist the urge to both laugh and roll his eyes; she's still as dramatic as he remembers. He gestures down his body. "Still, here."

"Yeah, _some_ of you is. There's a little less of you than I remember."

"I've been running."

She hums and runs her eyes over him. "Shows."

Prompto almost preens. Then he remembers that Cynthia is sixteen and is most definitely not flirting with him. She's going out with a guy who has real muscles; who wears cologne and leather jackets, and is way cooler (and older) than Prompto is.

"You want some food, kid?" she asks, pulling Prompto out of his thoughts.

Yes, Prompto wants food. Prompto wants a cheeseburger with all the trimmings and special sauce, a milkshake, and some of those fries that are just out of the fryer. He orders a daggerquill salad without any dressing or mayo, and a bottle of water.

Cynthia fakes a yawn. "Gods, your order is dull, dull, dull."

"No," Prompto's voice is laced with annoyance. "My order is healthy."

"Why you eatin' healthy, anyway? You got your eye on a girl or somethin'?"

Prompto can feel himself blush right down to his neck. "Something," he says.

"Oh, little Prommy's growin' up," Cynthia says with a laugh. She slaps him on the arm and goes to pinch his nose. Prompto swats her hand away.

When the order is ready, she slips a double cheeseburger into the takeout bag and tells him to live a little.

Prompto grits out a smile. "Sure."

"And if you disappear for a year again, I will find out where you live and come over to kick your ass."

Prompto gives her a wave as he leaves then turns to head to the orphanage before his willpower gives in and he eats the damn cheeseburger himself.

* * *

"You know you don't have to eat salad all the time, right, Prompto?" Quintus tells him around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "You can eat other things. Even burgers."

Prompto scowls. "I'm trying to lose weight."

"You are losing weight, boy. Quite a lot of it."

Prompto lifts his eyes from his food and casts a pleading look towards Quintus. Quintus looks back, concern in his eyes.

"I'm not starving myself," Prompto mumbles. He returns to his salad and picks at a piece of daggerquill meat with his fork.

"I should hope not," Quintus says, "that's not how dieting works."

People who aren't dieting always love to give dieting advice to people who are. Prompto's learning this the hard way.

"I know."

"I bumped into an old friend today," Quintus says. Prompto wonders where this is going. "He told me he sees you out running every morning."

Prompto rolls his eyes. He goes running every morning because he doesn't have to navigate through as many people at that time of day. He's not sure what the problem is with that. He's not the only one who does it.

"Yeah, I go running before school," he says, "I can't always do it after."

"Don't you think it's a little early?"

Quintus doesn't get it; how liberating it is, running on an empty road with not another soul on the street. With no curious eyes to watch him, Prompto is free from judgement and free from fear.

It's the only time Prompto gets to be himself.

"Other people do it," he says, hoping Quintus might ease off.

"Has someone said something to you? Is that why you're doing this?"

The word _heavy_ echoes in his head, in the voice of Prince Noctis. "No."

"Prompto, I'm worried about you."

Prompto throws his fork down on the table and groans. "Gods! I'm _fine_! I'm not starving, I'm not working out too much, and I'm not—I'm not—"

His body is shaking, and there's a tightness in his throat; shit, even his eyes are burning. Arms envelop him and pull him in, and he leans into Quintus' chest and bawls. His mood's been all over the place lately; he doesn't understand why.

Quintus pets through Prompto's hair, and it helps Prompto calm down. "It's okay, son."

"I'm never home in time for dinner, and I don't know how to cook," Prompto says into the fabric of Quintus' shirt. "And I go running because running is free, and I can do it any time. I'm just trying to be healthy."

"I know you are," Quintus says, his hands still raking through Prompto's hair. "But you don't need to do everything on your own. I can help you."

Prompto draws back and looks up at Quintus. "How?"

* * *

It's five am when Prompto pulls on his raggy sweats to go running before school starts.

His sneakers are dirty and threadbare, and they pound hard against the sidewalk in perfect time with the heartbeat that's pounding against his ribs. The steady rhythm it makes keeps him focussed as he tries to concentrate on the road ahead.

The first time he ran, he worried that he wouldn't be able to do it. Thought people would laugh at him for even trying. But then other runners, ordinary men and women trying to keep fit, would wave as he passed and cheer him on.

"Keep it up, kid," they'd shout. It spurred him on, even when he couldn't see for all the sweat dripping into his eyes, and pain stabbed at his sides.

When he had to stop and walk, overcome with nausea and convinced he would pass out, they'd encourage him more. "You're doing great, kid," they'd say.

He can hear their voices even now, at this time of day, when it's only Prompto and the endless stretch and curve of concrete and asphalt under his feet. They tell him he's doing well. Tell him to keep going.

So Prompto runs until it hurts and pushes further; until each step he takes sends shock waves up his calves. He doesn't slow down or stop: he wants to run until there's wind whipping at his face and drawing tears from his eyes. Run until every breath he inhales is a razor ripping through his lungs. He wants his feet to ache and feel his muscles burn.

His effort is paying off: as his waistline shrinks, he feels his confidence grow. He's talking to more people now; he's not afraid to ask for pointers on fitness. He even manages to make small talk with people.

Not Prince Noctis though. Gods, he's so not ready to talk to Prince Noctis.

He thinks of the prince as he runs past houses and apartments, their residents safely tucked away inside, asleep and unaware of his existence. He makes his way to the park. Sunlight creeps up over the horizon, cracking through towering trees and reflecting off the lake, making the water glitter and shine, and it makes him think of Noctis. Prompto chases after it's warmth until he's breathless and his skin is slick with sweat.

By the time he's home all he knows is fire and pain. He can barely stand; his legs are sore and limp like overcooked spaghetti, but it's worth it.

It's worth it when he turns on the shower and sits in the tub to let the spray fall over him and soothe his aching muscles.

When he stands at the mirror, camera in hand, ready to capture the latest in a long line of progress pictures; it's worth every bit of it.

He's got more than blistered feet and loosening clothes to prove it.

Raising his undershirt, he examines the spidery lines raking down his belly and runs his fingers over them. Prompto wears his scars like battle wounds; every mark a badge of honour; a tribute to his efforts. Some of them, the older ones, are gossamer white and only just visible, but he has newer ones, too, screaming rage red against his skin.

He turns his head to the side and looks over the collection of photographs that cover his wall; a collage of chubby Promptos, and next to those, the pictures of the prince that he's cut out of magazines. He imagines them being side to side in a photo; together, as friends.

It's the motivation he needs to keep going.

* * *

"Quintus, what are we doing?"

When Quintus had arrived at Prompto's apartment this morning, Prompto didn’t think they would be leaving it.

"I told you, I'm going to teach you how to cook."

"Yeah, but why are we here?"

They're walking along Citadel Square, and it's full to bursting with people. It's the Saturday market, and there are carts everywhere, selling everything from exotic clothes and trinkets, to food and spices. The smells alone are making Prompto's mouth water.

Quintus has stopped at the grocer's cart, and he's got a handful of Lucian tomatoes. After paying for them, he looks down at Prompto and grins. "We're buying ingredients, and kitchen equipment, Prompto. I've seen your kitchen, boy, your supplies are woeful."

"Equipment?"

"Pots, pans, spoons, that kind of thing, Prompto. Equipment."

They move to the next stall, where Quintus is looking at a range of cooking knives. Prompto blanches: at best, he's competent with a butter knife, but these knives look lethal. He throws a nervous look in Quintus direction; no, he's not sure he can handle these knives without something going wrong.

Quintus seems to pick up on his discomfort. He ruffles Prompto's hair and laughs a little. "Prompto, will you stop worrying, you'll be fine."

When they leave the market, both their arms are laden with bags upon bags of _stuff_ , and Quintus has to stop and rest once or twice on the walk back to Prompto's apartment.

"Maybe I should take up running, too," he says, between laboured breaths.

Prompto says nothing; he smiles at Quintus and offers to take some bags off him.

Pushing the door to Prompto's apartment open, Quintus heads inside, dumps the bags on Prompto's dining table, and rounds on Prompto with his brows furrowed.

"Okay, ground rules."

"Huh?"

"Number one," Quintus holds out a finger. "You are allowed to mess up. Mistakes are how you learn."

Prompto nods.

"Number two. Please try the food. If you don't like it, that’s fine, but taste it first, okay?"

"Um, okay."

"Three. Relax, boy, it's not a test."

"I'll try," Prompto says, tension loosening from his shoulders.

"That's all I can ask for," Quintus says, rolling his sleeves up and heading for the kitchen. "Now, go wash your hands, and we'll get started."

Cooking is, much to Prompto's surprise, fun.

Quintus shows him how to peel potatoes, chop onions, and slice up tomatoes. Prompto doesn't slice his fingers once.

He learns how to make a healthier version of Kenny's fries, and when that isn't a complete disaster (they taste just as good as the real thing), Prompto gets eager to do more.

"What are we going to make now?"

"How about some soup?"

The basic soup recipe is easy enough. Even Prompto, for all his clumsiness, can throw veggies in a pot. But then they start messing around with herbs and spices and try out other flavours. Some of them are disgusting, but Prompto perseveres. By the time they've finished, he can make tomato soup, chickatrice broth, and simple curry soup. The curry soup, in particular, is so much more delicious than it sounds, and Prompto ends up having two bowls.

They move on to mains, and things start getting a little harder. It's only daggerquill breast with rice and peas, but Prompto burns the rice the first two times he tries to make it.

"It's okay, Prompto, you'll learn it soon enough."

"But, I'm leaving it for the time you told me, and it still keeps sticking to the bottom."

"So, why do you think that is?"

He gets it right eventually (the heat was too high), and the resulting meal is satisfying enough.

"Okay," Quintus says, clapping his hands together, "it's time for my favourite part."

"What's that?" Prompto asks, curious.

"Dessert."

Although they haven't eaten much — they've stored the food in the fridge for later — Prompto's not so sure that making dessert is a good idea.

"Before you start fretting, it's beetroot muffins," Quintus says like that explains everything.

Prompto screws his face. "What are they?"

"Why don't we find out?" Quintus says, setting everything up.

Beetroot muffins, as it turns out, are not that difficult to make, and Prompto gets the hang of it quickly.

"Oh, my Gods!" Prompto exclaims, wiping crumbs from his lips and licking his fingers: he's never tasted anything like it. They're a gift to Eos from the Astrals themselves. "These are amazing."

"And, they're half the calories of regular muffins," Quintus explains with a knowing smile.

Prompto can't keep the awe out of his voice. "How do you know this stuff?"

"I might have done a little reading," Quintus says, "I know your diet means a lot to you. I wanted to show you that you can still enjoy sweets without agonising over it."

There's a beat of silence. Quintus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small white card.

"I've been speaking to my friend," he says, handing the card to Prompto. It's a business card. For a gym. "He says he wants to see you on Monday, after school."

Prompto looks at the card, then up at Quintus. He's not going to say anything, but he can’t afford a gym. Not with his allowance.

Still, Prompto should know by now that Quintus can read his mind.

"There's no charge."

There are no words in the Lucian language that Prompto can use to tell Quintus how grateful he is. He doesn’t know how he got to have this man in his life, or why Quintus is even still here when he, technically, doesn’t need to be.

He walks over to Quintus, not caring that he's covered in flour and food residue, and hugs him tight.

"Thank you."

Quintus hugs back, petting Prompto's hair. "It's nothing, son."

To Prompto, It's everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ;)
> 
> Mel x


End file.
